


Resting Sound

by insunshine, sinuous_curve



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-06
Updated: 2010-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-09 22:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes less time than it took Jon to move in than it does for him to move out, considering for the last couple months since he and Cassie broke up he'd been living in his parents' basement, even though he'd had enough money to get a place of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resting Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by wordsalone

The thing is, after resisting moving to Vegas for the better part of three years, all it really takes to get Jon to leave Chicago is Ryan saying/asking, "So I was thinking, would you want to go in together on a house?"

Ryan's still in his pajamas, hands curled around a Starbucks cup. He's got smears of dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up in the back from sleep; in the early light of morning, he seems oddly vulnerable and Jon wants, irrationally, to pull him into his lap and rock him back to sleep. "I just," Ryan continues, "I don't like living alone."

Jon says, "Yeah, okay, sure," and neither of them acknowledge the change.

It takes less time than it took Jon to move in than it does for him to move out, considering that for the last couple months since he and Cassie broke up, he'd been living in his parents' basement, even though he'd had enough money to get a place of his own.

Ryan comes back to Chicago with him, both of them with one way tickets, planning to drive Jon's pick-up down, packed to the brim with all the little things that comprise his life. It's weird, leaving them behind, hugging his mom, and telling her he'll visit once they get settled, giving his brothers high fives. It's weird, but it doesn't feel like he's leaving home, it feels like he's heading towards it.

Jon has GPS in the truck, but Ryan still prints out Mapquest directions, just in case. They say twenty-six hours straight shot but Ryan raises an eyebrow at the suggestion of him and Jon trading off driving so they can get there faster.

"I was thinking we could take our time," Ryan says with a loose quirk of his shoulders. "I mean, it's not like we have anywhere to be." Jon smiles for no reason he can think of, and watches as Ryan sets the printed pages on the dashboard, to fade and yellow beneath the sun.

They don't really stop much, a few hotels here and there, but it feels like longer, it feels like they're pacing themselves with entire days, just with each other for company.

Ryan's quiet when he drives, and loud when he smokes, even if it's just cigarettes. He always sings along with the radio, or Jon's iPod, even though Jon's iPod's an eclectic mix of Muse and Woody Guthrie. Ryan sings along even if he doesn't know the words, humming low, and Jon likes it, likes that he can always hear him, no matter where they are.

The last night before they hit Vegas, they pass by the motels and pull off to the side of the road in the middle of the Nevada desert. It'll be like getting back to real life, Jon thinks, sliding out of the little bubble of highway and truck stops, bad diner food and coffee from gas stations, and back to reality.

He has a couple sleeping bags, used more when 504plan was struggling and they crashed on more floors than Jon likes to think about. He spreads them out in the back of his truck, stuck in between the boxes and the suitcases, and flops down on his back. "Sleeping outside," Ryan says and Jon expected him to be dubious, but he's not. It's almost like he's laughing as he lays down, one arm tucked behind his head. "Good idea."

It's nice, the air isn't as cold as it should be, for nighttime, and Jon falls asleep watching the light from the stars play across Ryan's cheeks. He looks happy, and it makes something warm and sweet ease in Jon's chest because, at least in part, because it was him that made Ryan look like that.

In the morning, he wakes up to Ryan laying on his stomach, chin pillowed on his arms and an easy smile. "Morning," Ryan says through a yawn. "We're only about twenty minutes out. We could have made it back last night."

Jon stretches, arching his back up off the metal bed of the truck. He sighs, a little, rolling his head to the side. "Do you wish we had?" Ryan laughs, low and soft in the gray of early morning. "No."

Jon's been to Ryan's house more than a few times, and he's comfortable enough to drop his duffles in the foyer, strip off his sweaty hoodie, and grab a beer from the cooler, heading towards the couch.

He helped Ryan pick out this couch after Keltie left, and it's more comfortable than he remembers. Ryan settles next to him after changing himself, and Jon vaguely thinks about calling the guys, but he doesn't. Ryan's warm and comfortable, and it's not like Jon won't be here all the fucking time now, or anything.

"Want to get your shit settled?" Ryan asks, but he doesn't move, just takes another swig from his beer.

Jon shakes his head. "It can wait." He smiles at Ryan, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, no rush, right?"

They pass the night on the couch, drinking beer and working their way through the small amount of snack food Ryan has in the house. A little after two, Ryan's head slides down a few inches into Jon's shoulder, dead to the world. Jon thinks about moving, but doesn't really want to. He clicks the TV off and pulls the blanket off the back of the couch, spreads it over the both of them and falls asleep.

**

It's pretty easy, after that.

Spencer and Brendon come by after a few days, but they do it in this way where they pretend they didn't come together, even though Jon saw Brendon sneak out of Spencer's car, and then saw how Spencer watched him, how Spencer waited.

Ryan doesn't seem to notice it, or if he does, he doesn't mention it, and that's perfectly fine by Jon. It's none of his business.

Still though, it's kind of cute, watching them around each other, like baby chickens just hatched or something equally as schmaltzy as his weed addled brain provides him. These are his bandmates; he's seen Brendon prancing around naked, clad only in a feather boa, if there were normal conventions to the four of them, they'd be long gone now.

**

After Brendon and Spencer leave, walking side by side down the driveway without the elaborate pretense and that makes Jon laugh, a little, he and Ryan sit up on Ryan's bed with the lights turned off, smoking in the gloom of dying twilight.

"Do you think they're -- " he waves his hand around, because Ryan will always be a little strange when it comes to Spencer and a little stranger when it comes to Brendon and Jon doesn't want to break the easy calm of the evening. Ryan raises an eyebrow and blows out a crooked smoke ring, a trick he won't share with anyone.

"Yeah," he murmurs, "Probably."

Jon nods and inhales, savoring the burn of nicotine. "Is that okay?"

There's a long beat of silence, Ryan's face lit by the glowing end of his cigarette, casting orange light and deep shadows across his delicate bones. "If they're happy," he says and Jon smiles.

**

All of Keltie's stuff is gone.

Jon never really noticed her influence before, because despite appearances, she and Ryan were startlingly similar when it came to home furnishings.

It shocks him, when he wakes up the third morning there, with a hankering for a cup of coffee from the cappuccino machine he knows Ryan has, to find it gone, along with the colander, the slow cooker and the panini maker.

Ryan hasn't said anything, and Jon knows he probably won't -- they don't work like that -- but he can see it in the set of his shoulders when Ryan comes downstairs. It's like he's been found out, some secret shame exposed to the light, and he shrugs, not all that lightly and says, "We should go to Ikea," voice a little flatter than usual.

A part of Jon thinks he should offer up some platitude, if you ever need to talk, but he knows with Ryan, that will only set the lines of his shoulders tighter and make him retreat into the shell where his lyrics turn dark and angry and bitter and Brendon has to quietly admit he doesn't know how to sing them.

"Yeah," Jon says, "I'll get my keys."

There isn't actually an Ikea anywhere near them, which Jon thinks it's kind of hilarious once they get in the car, because they just finished a big huge road trip, and they're already starting on another.

"LA," Ryan says, looking at the directions he'd printed out. "LA, I think, which is kind of ridiculous, if you think about it, because didn't we just get home?" Jon likes that he says it like that, he doesn't know why, but he does.

Jon shrugs. "We could always go to Target?" The affronted look on Ryan's face, bordering on unmitigated horror, makes him laugh. "Okay, so LA it is."

He starts the car and pulls away, rolls down both the windows and cranks up the radio. Ryan pulls cigarettes from his back pocket and offers one to Jon on automatic. They drive in companionable silence; Jon keeps his arm dangling out the window, flattening his hand against the wind and Ryan kicks his feet up on the dashboard. It's almost like a scene for a movie, would be, if things were just a little bit more perfect.

It takes them a little more than four hours to get there and get parked, and Jon's never been so glad to stop moving in his life.

"Looks packed," Ryan says, and Jon blinks, realizing it's the first time either of them have spoken in longer than he can remember.

"It does," he says, filling up the silence.

"Yeah." Ryan smiles at him, out of nowhere, big and shockingly bright, and Jon can't help smiling back.

"Here." Ryan pops open the glove compartment and pulls out a couple tangled pairs of oversized sunglasses. "Disguises," he explains and Jon bursts out laughing.

"You're such a fucking rock star, Ryan Ross." He takes a pair with blue plastic frames and slides them on. "Can I have your autograph?"

Ryan flips him the bird and picks out a pair his own. They're only slightly ridiculous, with what look like little rhinestones at the corners and Jon has a moment of wondering if they're the last detritus of Keltie, but he doesn't say anything.

Ryan's moving loose and easy, smile quirking at the corners of his mouth and it's too nice and too content. "Come on, rock star," Jon says, opening the door. "Let's go buy shit."

They end up with a new couch, even though the old one was perfectly serviceable. They get a blender, and some bowls, even though there are only the two of them, and they make out with a new futon for Jon's room too.

Ryan looks smug when they get home and Jon collapses back on it. "This is the most comfortable piece of furniture I have ever owned in my life." Ryan pokes his foot with his fingers and he keeps on grinning.

"Well, my house is your house is now our house," Ryan says, "It's not like I was going to make you sleep on the floor."

Jon smiles at that, laughs a little, wondering why the words "our house" sound so fucking nice in his ears. "Come here." He hooks his fingers in the collar of Ryan's shirt and pulls him up onto the futon, sprawled just a little awkwardly with his legs tossed over Jon's thighs. "Tomorrow, we could even try grocery shopping," he murmurs conspiratorially, and Ryan rolls his eyes.

"That's why they invented take out," he grumbles and they both laugh.

**

They do brave grocery shopping the next day, piling their cart high with things mothers would disapprove of; Pop Tarts and Sour Cream and Onion chips, gallons of orange juice and Gatorade. They gorge themselves when they get home, falling on top of each other.

There's a game on TV, the Cubs are on, and Jon grins -- has found himself grinning a lot lately. "Ryan Ross," he says, voice loud and booming and Ryan mumbles something that sounds like, "Nghrrr," at him. "Ryan Ross, I'm going to teach you about the beauties of baseball."

"I don't believe in organized sports," Ryan mumbles, arranging his face into something that vaguely resembles the mug Pete pulls whenever he's playing at being annoyed.

Jon rolls his eyes and pokes him in the ribs, aiming for the spot halfway between his sternum and his side that Spencer told him about, the one that makes Ryan collapse in unwitting giggles. "You played hockey, for Christ's sake," Jon counters as Ryan squirms away.

"I was twelve and insane," Ryan spits, biting down on his lower lip.

Ryan has the controller, but he doesn't change the channel, and Jon snuggles closer, whispering in Ryan's ear about balls and strikes, base hits and grand slams, and by the top of the ninth inning, he's got Ryan yelling as loudly he is.

He counts it as an accomplishment.

They fall asleep on the couch, except this time it's Jon who closes his eyes first. When he wakes up, it's to his face mashed into Ryan's neck and Ryan's hand curled around his shoulder in a casual display of possession. Jon inhales and catches the faint remnants of Ryan's body wash, something vaguely tinged with vanilla, and he closes his eyes again.

**

Ryan makes margaritas in the morning with the new blender, and Jon blinks blearily at him, because it can't even be nine in the morning. "What," Ryan says easily around a mouthful of alcohol. "It's like, nine in the afternoon."

"Fucking smartass," Jon mumbles, shuffling across the kitchen in boxers, socks, and Ryan's robe that's just small enough for the cuffs to come up above his wrists.

He takes the drink, in an actual margarita glass with a little orange umbrella hanging off the side, because only Ryan would have drink umbrellas and not milk, and leans against the counter. It's actually pretty good and Jon smiles. There's a kind of strangely intoxicating domesticity in drinking margaritas with Ryan in his underwear in the early morning.

Spencer calls around noon, and from the look on Ryan's face, Jon can tell he's making noises about recording.

After all, they have eight tracks written, what would be the harm in releasing a little EP to break up the monotony of three years without anything new? "Jon's here," Spencer says, and Jon can hear him, through the receiver and across the room.

Ryan scratches idly at his hip, and Jon can feel him thinking. "Jon's here and Brendon has a recording studio in his house. C'mon, man," his voice is pleading, getting louder and louder, and a second too late, Jon realizes Ryan's put the call on speaker. "I miss playing music, Ry," he says, and it hits Jon, fast and hard in the gut, that he misses it too.

Ryan tucks the phone between his shoulder and ear and looks at Jon. "What do you think?"

Jon goes to shrug and realizes he's already tapping out the bassline to one of the new songs, written with Ryan at two in the morning somewhere in Colorado during the drive from Chicago, against his knee. He smiles and Ryan smiles back, rolling his eyes. "C'mon, Jon." Spencer's voice filters over the speaker, tinny and pleading. "Brendon's driving me nuts."

There's a small beat, a moment of acknowledgment and Ryan shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Yeah, yeah, we miss it too. When?"

They set a tentative date to start, in Brendon's words, "working their shit out," and Jon's excited, more excited than he's been in a while, actually, and his life's been pretty good lately, to be perfectly honest. "You think," Ryan says later, when they're curled up on the couch again, this time watching Casablanca (because the Cubs aren't on 'til eight), "You think, an EP? Will people buy that? Wait three years just to get eight songs?"

"They waited three years last time," Jon says quietly. It's funny, looking back, how their lives seem to work in a kind of cycle. Two years with an album, promoting and playing and touring, going around the world twice and change as one version of the band. Then off time, a false start or two and they repeated the same process, just as a different incarnation of Panic.

"Pretty was a whole album," Ryan counters, "Not an EP." Jon smiles down at him, at the worry written in Ryan's face.

"We'll just have to make them eight fucking good songs," Jon says with a yawn and Ryan nods, tucking his face to Jon's chest.

They've always been an affectionate band, but Jon finds himself touching Ryan even more than before. It's odd enough that he catalogues it, but not odd enough that he stops. They're easy touches, the small of Ryan's back, his uncovered skin from his too tight tee shirts. For such a skinny guy, Ryan is warm warm warm, and Jon likes the feel of him.

**

Saturday evening they get into Jon's truck and drive to Brendon's; Ryan keeps his body angled toward Jon's in the passenger seat, knees pressed together. The lights are on at the house and, through the front window, Jon can see Spencer press an easy kiss to Brendon's temple and the closeness of it, the intimacy, makes something warm press against Jon's chest.

"Huh," he says and Ryan huffs out a chuckle. "About fucking time," he mumbles, pushing open the door and Jon shakes his head, smiling. "Yeah. About time."

Their knuckles bump as they walk from the car to the front door and Jon almost, almost, laces their fingers together.

The funny thing is, Jon knows if he did it, if he held Ryan's hand, Ryan wouldn't stop him. Ryan would squeeze his fingers and make questioning noises, but he wouldn't let go. Jon likes that he knows that, and when they knock, and subsequently, when Spencer answers, grin lighting up his entire face, Jon doesn't think he's ever been happier.

They sit cross-legged on the floor of the studio in a loose circle. Brendon has a guitar across his lap and an almost childishly excited smile written across his face.

"Spencer and I, we've been working on a couple new songs," he says, smiling at Spencer from the corner of his eye. He shifts his focus to Ryan, almost shy, and Jon knows why. It's always been the two of them, mostly, and it should be strange that it's not, but it isn't.

"Jon and I did the same," Ryan says and it's not a dig, just an offer. Jon catches Spencer's eye and grins. They're okay, still.

"So I'm thinking," Brendon says, when they've hashed out everything they have to hash out, when all the lyrics have been taken apart and put back together again. "I'm thinking we shouldn't do this."

Even sitting across the room from him, Jon can feel Ryan's shoulders tensing, he can feel it. "What do you mean," it's a question, but Ryan doesn't ask it as one. Brendon shrugs his shoulders, not quite looking at anyone.

"Just. You know what we've never done? We've never really recorded our covers." He's fidgeting, and he's not looking at anyone, not even Spencer, twining a loose piece of thread across the knee-hole of his jeans. "What if we release two things in a year? This like. Covers thing just for us, like. Who knows if it'll catch on? And then we save these songs," he clutches them close to his chest. "And we make something great out of them, huh?"

**

They wrap up a little after three in the morning.

Spencer and Brendon say goodbye from the front door, Brendon with his head tipped onto Spencer's shoulder and his arm looped unthinkingly around Spencer's waist.

"What are you thinking?" Jon asks in the car, driving down mostly deserted streets with the radio turned low. Ryan has the reworked lyrics on his lap and he's looking over them, mouthing Brendon and Spencer's words.

"I'm thinking their stuff's pretty good," Ryan says with a soft smile.

"I'm thinking about what songs to cover," Jon says, even though Ryan didn't ask him.

Ryan grins at him. "Yeah?"

Jon nods, hands spread wide an easy on the steering wheel. "Yeah." He can't stop smiling, he's been smiling since they got fucking down to Vegas, and he doesn't even know why.

"What were you thinking of?"

Jon shrugs and rolls down his window. "I dunno. Some Dylan, maybe, you know?"

Ryan's face lights up and Jon's self aware enough to know that's exactly why he suggested it. "God, playing Dylan," Ryan murmurs, biting down on his lower lip. "Fuck."

Jon chuckles, opening the middle compartment and pulling out his iPod. "Here, change it, you know you want to." Ryan blushes, just a little, and plugs it in, rifling through the playlists to Dylan. Crazy Love comes out soft through the speakers.

"This one, you think?" he asks, and Jon can already see him, charting chords and making plans, lip bitten, and when they get to the house, it's almost a surprise, like the pick-up drove itself, or something. "Maybe you should sing it," he says when Jon parks, and he knows he must look ridiculous, mouth hanging open, eyes wide.

"Me?"

"No," Ryan says in a deadpan, "The other Jon in the car."

Jon rolls his eyes and flicks his earlobe. "Ryan, I could barely manage the harmonies on Pretty, you really think I can actually carry off an entire song?"

Ryan looks up through the sweep of his eyelashes, smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah. Yeah I do. Plus, asshole, you sang in that high school band you had, didn't you?" Jon blinks at him, and sure, he'd told them, sure they'd know, but he didn't actually expect Ryan, out of all of them, to remember. "You could totally sing like, 'Blowin' in the Wind' or something. You would rock that." Jon blinks, and Ryan smiles at him, soft, soft like Jon's never seen before.

"I'll think about it," he says, ignoring the smug little grin that spreads across Ryan's face because he knows that Jon will protest and resist, but he'll give in the end because Ryan suggested it and because Ryan, in his own strange way, asked. They don't watch TV that night, they lay in companionable silence on Jon's bed, staying awake until the sun casts faint glow through the open window.

**

Jon wakes up with an armful of Ryan, Ryan's lips on his neck, Jon's arms loped around his middle. It's a nice way to wake up, he thinks, and then Ryan snuffles against his neck, eyes opening just slightly, and wow, it's so much better.

They fall into a pattern, days in Brendon's studio and nights curled up on one of their beds.

Maybe it should be strange, Jon's fairly certain it should be actually, but it's not. The rooms feel too big alone, empty and echoing, and Jon sleeps better with Ryan curled around his side anyway.

A little more than a month in, Ryan and Brendon are in the back yard, playing their guitars, trying to find the right mix between staying true to the old songs and adding their own spin to them; Jon's sitting at the piano bench, plucking out songs because he can and Spencer's behind his kit, but he's not playing and Jon can feel the weight of Spencer's eyes on his neck.

"What?" he asks, turning and offering Spencer and crooked smile. "Spence, you've been staring at me for like, twenty minutes."

"I think," Spencer says, and his voice is quiet, so, so quiet. "I think I have a problem."

Jon quirks a brow, and tries to ignore the sudden heavy weight in his stomach, because nothing is okay when Spencer isn't.

"Are you dying? Tell me you aren't dying, Spence. Surprise death isn't kosher." Spencer cracks a smile, but it's tiny, and it doesn't really fit on his face. It makes something knot up in his stomach.

"I'm not dying," he says, standing and raking a hand through his hair. He lost the headbands over the years, along with the beard, but he keeps his hair long, brushing his chin.

"Come here," Jon says, moving over on the bench and Spencer sits down beside him, touching from shoulder to thigh. "What is it?" There's a long silence and Jon slides an arm around Spencer's shoulders, old habit, and it hits him that he's missed Spencer and Brendon a little, since he came to Vegas.

"Brendon and I," Spencer says with a half smile, "Come on, Jon, you're not blind."

Jon snorts. "Keep talking."

"I kind of like. I kind of want to make him happy, always?" Jon nods, and it makes something warm and happy spread through his chest, seeing the look on Spencer's face, even though it's slightly pained. Brendon deserves -- Brendon deserves something special. Jon's pretty sure Spencer can give it to him, whatever that is.

"Why is that a problem, Spence?"

Spencer shurgs and huffs out a laugh. "I don't know. It'll fuck up the band?"

Jon thinks about Ryan's mouth pressed against his skin, kisses on the necks of best friends his mind supplies, and the way he looks with the TV casting a blue glow on his face, trying to pretend he's not completely absorbed in the Cubs game. "Has it fucked up the band so far?" Jon asks evenly and Spencer goes still.

"No, but, it's not official. Hasn't been. It's just, Shane moved out and Haley and I broke up and we were both fucking lonely. It was supposed to be a companionship thing and then it wasn't just that."

**

Ryan's silent the entire drive home, but it's not the easy silence they're used to. "Ry?" Ryan shakes his head, and he's driving for once, hands tight and white knuckled against the wheel.

"Can you believe it," he asks, no inflection at all in his voice.

Jon's sort of shocked, but he keeps it in, or tries to. "Yeah, Ryan Ross, I can," Ryan winces. "Ryan," Jon says slowly, "Ryan, it's not like we didn't, it's not like you didn't know." Ryan winces again, shakes his head and shifts away from Jon, staring out the window at the houses rushing by in the dying light. "Ryan, come on," Jon says, voice low, "Talk."

Ryan makes a noise that's likely meant to be a laugh, but comes out as nothing so much as harsh exhale. "It's different, Jon. Knowing and, fuck, knowing."

"They're happy." Jon shrugs, worrying at his lower lip. "Doesn't that count for anything?"

"They're ecstatic," Ryan says, looking at Jon from the corner of his eyes. "And fuck if I know what that means."

Jon drops a hand on Ryan's shoulder, but instead of calming him like he thought it would, it only makes his shoulders tense even more than they already had been. Jon pulls his hand away like he's been branded. "Hey, dude, are you -- " Ryan nods his head three times in quick succession, but he doesn't say anything, and his lip is bitten red and bloody.

Two days slide by in awkward silence. They don't go to Brendon's, and neither Brendon nor Spencer call and Jon figures they're giving them time to process. He appreciates the gestures as much as he hates it, hates being in the house with Ryan coiled tight as piano wire.

The ease, the comfort in their routine is gone, and sleeping alone in bed gives Jon bad dreams and hours spent staring out the window at the faint speckle of stars.

It happens in the early morning, with the rising sun peeking in through the blinds and Ryan standing in the kitchen in his boxers, drinking orange juice straight from the counter.

No amount of skin is too much after living in a portable confined space with three other guys, but Jon still blinks at the sight of him, all of that pale, smooth Ryan skin, just out there, prime for looking.

Jon's seen Ryan naked a handful of times and shirtless more than he can count, but there's something about this, something about the ease in his bones when he thinks that no one's watching that sends something hard and hot and beautiful straight to the pit of Jon's stomach.

The realization comes at him sideways and from the back, skirting past what he can easily see to settle in the back of his mind like it's always belonged there.

Jon inhales and exhales, counting the sped up beats of his heart and wonders when he started seeing Ryan so well he turned blind. Ryan swallows down the rest of the orange juice and tosses it into the trash can, wiping his mouth on the back of his head. His hair's a mess, eyes still lidded from sleep, and Jon can't breathe, standing in archway between the kitchen and the living room.

Oh, he thinks, I love you. Ryan runs a hand through his hair and yawns, scratching his hip. That makes sense.

Ryan notices him a minute later, and his eyes don't exactly get darker, but his posture stiffens, like he's been caught out, like Jon's intruding on something private, but it may just be a trick of the light, because a minute later Ryan's back, a different version entirely. It will never stop astounding Jon just how many times Ryan can change, right there, right before his eyes, and still remain constant.

"Morning," he says, and Ryan blinks and nods at him, but doesn't say anything, scratching at a random patch of skin on his abdomen. "Did you drink the last of the juice?" Jon asks, cocking an eyebrow and Ryan colors, a faint blush of pink spreading across his cheeks, and Jon's chest, the thing settled there between his lungs and around his heart, twists again.

"I was thirsty," Ryan says, raising one shoulder in a little half shrug. "I made coffee, if you want that instead." He smiles, reaching for a mug, and somehow their balance is restored, except not completely, because now Jon looks at Ryan and loses his breath.

"You okay, man?" Ryan asks as he turns, brow quirked. He's still shirtless, still standing there, except now, Jon's not thinking, naked bandmate/roommate/if-we-were-British-mate. He's thinking, Jesus, "how did I never before notice Ryan's collarbones?" Except he must have noticed them, he must have, since they've always been there, it's not like Ryan mutated.

"I'm fine," Jon says, shaking his head. "I'm good."

Ryan watches him slantways as he pours coffee into two mismatched mugs, putting in the right amounts of cream and sugar before passing the red one to Jon. "I was thinking we should head over to Brendon's. Brendon and Spencer's."

The self-correction makes Jon smile as he takes a sip. "We're pretty fucking close to being finished, you know."

Jon nods slowly, raising an eyebrow. "You can play nice?"

"Fuck you," Ryan says, but without heat.

**

For the record? In case anyone ever asks him, in case this EP actually does something and goes somewhere and reporters are actually asking them questions again, Jon will tell whoever asks, that he hates singing.

"I hate singing," he tells Spencer, he tells Brendon, he tells Ryan, even, even though Ryan is the one who asked him to do this. "I hate singing, have I mentioned that I hate singing?" he mumbles the words as they're getting ready to go a few mornings later and Ryan rolls his eyes all the way to the car.

Jon has to remind him to call Spencer when they're five minutes away, because while they'd already seen Brendon's bare ass a lot over the years, they've seen it so many more times now. Calling at least puts pants on both occupants of the house, though it doesn't stop the surprise cuddles and the kissing. Jon had known, had thought he was prepared for the kissing. He wasn't.

It's not that Spencer and Brendon are into the ridiculously overwrought public displays of affection Jon remembers from high school, mouths open, tongues out, hands sliding up and down clothing. No, it's Spencer dropping kisses to smooth of Brendon's brow whenever he can't seem work out a particularly difficult chord progression and Brendon fitting himself along Spencer's back with his arms around Spencer's waist as he drums.

It's constant and consistent and it makes Jon look at Ryan, palms itching with a need he can't put words to.

"But you're good at it," Ryan counters with a crooked smile. "And you're only singing one song and you have Brendon backing up the choruses. It sounds good, Jon, it does."

Jon blushes, and he keeps blushing.

He blushes all the way home, and blushes as Ryan ambles out of the car, moving slow like molasses, and keeps blushing when Ryan drops his keys -- drops down to his knees, and then he's blushing and lightheaded.

"Fuck, dude," Ryan says, and his breath is hot, oh so hot slithering across Jon's skin, his mouth inches -- inches away from Jon's stomach. "Dude, can you use your keys? I can't fucking find mine."

Jon blinks, and nods, and it could get awkward romantic comedy here in a minute, so he holds on tight to the key chain and makes sure that the key fits into the lock before he loosens his grip.

"Thanks," Ryan says as he gets to his feet, pushing the door open.

He sings Crazy Love under his breath as he walks into the kitchen and pulls out two beers, sliding one across the counter to Jon. He orders pizza and Jon likes, really likes, they he doesn't have to ask what to get; it's a pepperoni for him and pineapple for Jon, bread sticks to split and no soda because the only drink for pizza is beer.

The pizza comes twenty minutes after the opening pitch of the Cubs game and Ryan, the little shit, makes Jon get up off the couch and get it.

"I hate you," he mumbles, not even looking at the delivery guy before giving him a five dollar tip and coming back into the living room.

"Hey, so." Ryan looks vaguely uncomfortable as Jon settles back on the couch, and something ugly and hard blooming in his chest.

"What?" There's a tiny little tremor in his voice, and Ryan flinches.

"Spence said the weirdest thing today," he says conversationally and Jon tilts his head to the side questioningly.

"What's that?"

Ryan blinks, a flush creeping over his cheeks. "He said," Ryan pauses, huffing out a laugh that isn't quite. "He said that you only sang the stupid song. For me. He said. And I just." He flails his hand around, and Jon can't breathe, suddenly, can't hear anything save for the rushing in his ears.

Jon maybe, possibly hates Spencer Smith a little bit, with Ryan staring at him wide eyed and scared, body pulled so taunt it's a miracle he doesn't snap.

"I just." He begins and stops, faltering around the words, because it's been so fucking nice to live like this, easy and content, and he can't lose that, not even for the sake of full disclosure. Jon's never been the kind of person to expect total honesty, he has deep faith in the white lie and the lie of omission, but this is different. "It's possible," he says, cheeks burning as he looks at his lap.

"It's possible that you sang the song for me?"

Jon nods, because he really doesn't trust his voice, and Ryan is just looking at him, eyes huge and wide, like a little kid, almost, except Jon knows he's not all that young.

"I think," Jon says, and his voice isn't his own, not really. "I think I could -- " he stops and swallows, closing his eyes and rubbing the heels of his palms against them. "I do, I think I do. Love you, I mean." He waves his hand around again, and can't even manage to open his eyes.

Ryan's hand lands on his cheek and he jumps, wanting to push into the touch and jerk away in the same moment.

"Jon, hey, Jon," Ryan says, voice soft and a litlle guarded. "Look at me." It takes more effort than Jon would have expected, to open his eyes and see what's written in Ryan's eyes, fear or disgust, resignation or, he can barely hope for it, want. Ryan's looking at him, thumb sweeping rhythmically across Jon's cheek. "Do you mean that?" Ryan asks. "I mean. Really? Do you mean that?"

Jon nods, just barely, but he nods. "Yeah," he whispers, and that's all they need.


End file.
